The attendant looked at Rhiannon without enthusiasm. He gave the big man a time ticket and turned and went through an arched doorway. He had just pulled a fresh punching bag from the dwindling supply when a _wham_ sound ran across the air of the playground outside. Surrounded by pained chuckles, Rhiannon looked unhappily at the dangling plastic ruin and allowed himself to be shoved aside by the bitter attendant. Then, when the damage was repaired, he drew back his huge right arm again. The attendant grabbed it. "Hold on, Rhiannon, there's a rocket game over here, fella. Come on and I'll show it to you!" He pulled the reluctant giant over to a facsimile control board set against the wall; watched for, and saw, the huge smile break out. Every day was a new life for Rhiannon, and the presence of this mock control board--installed to keep him out of trouble--came always as a wonderful surprise. "Sit down, Rhiannon. Tubes set?" A tense nod. "Gravity O.K.? Green light from Central? _Blast off!_" Rhiannon zoomed his boat into outer space and began to chase a comet. It got away from him. After a while he thought it would be nice if he could blast the whole Rebel navy out of the void--and they appeared, tier upon tier of them, in gleaming battle shields. "Sergeant Atoms!" he rumbled. "Make ready to fire." Atoms rose up on his hind legs, compelled and controlled by the strange and inexplicable telepathic aftermath of Rhiannon's misfortune. The former pilot's "cosmic braincut"--and the "braincuts" of the other few similar radiation cases--had resulted in this sour blessing: had stepped up their mental broadcasting apparatus, and left them very little to broadcast. Humans could often pick up random thoughts from these men, while animals reacted easily to their will. Thus it was that "Sergeant" Atoms placed his paws on the dummy firing button; a temporarily selfless extension of Rhiannon's physical and psychical form. Together, they wiped out the Rebel fleet in a matter of seconds. Rhiannon was exploring Polaris when a hand fell lightly upon his shoulder. He whirled up and around snarling. A Rebel spy on his boat: he'd kill the son-- Karrin ducked, his face seeming to sag pallid from the front of his skull. "Whoa, now, Rhiannon, it's Karrin--it's Karrin!" "Rebel spy!" Rhiannon had Karrin dangling off the floor at the end of his arm. He drew back his other fist--all the way to Polaris--for the blow that would end the war. Then reality registered behind those glazed, distant-seeing pupils. "Mr. Karrin! I'm sorry sir." He set his employer's sandals back on the floor and began to shuffle uncomfortably.